Scream For Me
by Cas-Wings
Summary: When John receives a text about a new case, he isn't surprised. That is, until he learns the case is in a strip club, where Sherlock has gone undercover in a way he never expected. PWP.


_**((If you'd like to see extras on this fic, such as the cover, please go to this fic on Archiveofourown. All the links are in the notes before the chapter begins. The link to my Archive profile can be found on my profile here.**_**))**

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><p>If John Watson was asked when exactly the night of June 21st took a turn for the unexpected, he wouldn't be able to answer. Everything that happened that night was a rather unclear blur of disbelief and shock. However, if he was to think on it days later when his mind cleared, he would realize it all began with a single text, received when he'd just hailed a cab to get home from the surgery.<p>

_Case tonight; embezzlement. Great possibility the culprit will be caught within hours. Go home and change, I've left the appropriate clothes on your bed. SH_

John would later attempt to argue he hadn't hesitated at the less than ordinary text, but he hadn't batted an eye. (One side effect of living with Sherlock day in and day out, he supposed.)

_Mind telling me where this is, then? _

He texted back quickly, pocketing his phone until he got up to the flat.

_Strip club. The Prancing Pony in London. I'll meet you there in forty-five minutes, I have undercover work to arrange. SH_

Well, that was certainly unexpected. It wasn't as if they hadn't worked cases in some fairly seedy and downright strange places, they'd just never had one involving anything so... Intimate. Shaking his head to himself, feeling foolish for being so taken back by the mere mention of a strip bar, John made his way up to his room, hoping the clothes waiting for him weren't somehow related to stripping. He could handle Sherlock on cases, hell, he could shoot people without blinking if it was necessary, but if it came down it he wasn't sure he would be able to put on any sort of provocative act. Luckily, he didn't have anything to worry about. Yes, the clothes laying on his bed were different from what he would normally wear, but were nothing that wouldn't let him blend in with the other bar patrons. Ignoring the articles for a moment, he sent a quick text back, receiving a response within seconds.

_I'm assuming you're posing as an employee tonight?_

_ Yes. I have to go now, get dressed. Don't be late. SH_

A bouncer, then. Although John found it difficult to imagine Sherlock carting out rough and eager lads who got too handsy with the women, he figured his flatmate would have perfected the act before going into the case. Shrugging to himself, realizing simultaneously he could really use a shower, John left the clothes laying on the bed and went to the loo, washing up in a little under fifteen minutes. Although they were on a case, he reasoned he could meet a few women at the bar. It wouldn't hurt to try, seeing as he hadn't had a date in months. Wrapping a towel around his waist, John ascended the stairs back up to his room, pushing away the obvious conclusion that a strip club wasn't the ideal place for finding a girlfriend.

Putting a bit of product he vowed to never let Sherlock experiment with in his hair, John turned back to the outfit on his bed, slightly put off by the fact every last article was present, right down to the pants. (Which were his best pair, not that he kept track of that sort of thing.) Sighing, he pulled on the briefs, following them with tight jeans he'd never seen before. They were dark blue, the thighs faded ever so slightly to draw unconscious attention to his crotch and arse. Trying not to think about how his flatmate had found the best pair of trousers he could ever remember owning, John put on the smart leather belt he was provided, the sleek black edged with silver to contrast against his jeans. Considering his physique in the mirror for a long moment, he turned back to grab the shirt, quite satisfied with the fact he still looked fairly fit despite all the takeout he ate. The shirt was, unlike the jeans and belt, something he would never even consider wearing. It was a sleek black button down, which would have been fine had the buttons reached past the bottom of his sternum. The majority of his chest was bared, a look he never would have taken before. Leave it to Sherlock to pick out the absolute _worst_ shirt. Shifting uncomfortably at the lack of soft cotton up to his neck, John checked his appearance once again, surprised he didn't look half bad. Sighing, he slipped on the simple black dress shoes at the edge of the bed, tying the new laces smartly.

Realizing a moment later he had little time to spare, John didn't bother to question the jewelry left for him and tied on a black collar necklace, the length of the silk fabric only reaching the top of his collarbone. Turning back to the mirror, the doctor spared a bit more product for his hair to keep him looking in place at the club before heading downstairs, his phone and wallet slipped safely into the pocket of his trousers.

"We've got a case," he called to Mrs. Hudson as he descended the stairs, rushing so the landlady wouldn't see him in such an outfit. "We'll probably be late, have a good night."

Just as the door closed behind him, John heard Mrs. Hudson call a hasty 'thank you', the rest of her sentence cautioning him to be safe lost to the bustle of the street outside. Hailing a cab for the second time that day, John got into the first one he could, feeling self conscious and exposed in the clothing he was in. Why Sherlock had picked these clothes, he hadn't the foggiest. But, he figured silently while sending a text to his flatmate entailing his ETA, Sherlock would know more about this venue than he did; hell, he'd never even been to the place. Ignoring the odd look he got from the cabbie at his requested address, John sat back in the vehicle and watched London pass outside the window, mind wandering to what sort of events the night might contain.

Little did he know, his mind could never wander to what would actually happen later on. With Sherlock, he would realize later, it was best to expect not only the unexpected, but the completely unbelievable.

When he arrived at the club, he was surprised by its posh appearance. The outside was rather small, suggestively tinted windows surrounding black french doors, "The Prancing Pony" written in edgy cursive above the entrance. Crowds of men were outside mingling, causing John to raise a brow at the sight. He knew these types of places were busy on Friday nights, but never expected so many patrons to be present. At least he was dressed to par, judging by all the other lads in tight trousers and shirts similar to his. Politely ignoring the looks he was getting as he entered the venue, (he _was_ revealing a lot of skin, even compared to the other men), John went to have a seat directly in front of the empty stage, not paying attention to detail around him as his mind focused on finding Sherlock. Looking around through the quickly growing masses of people, he tried to pick his flatmate from the surprisingly limited bouncers, but couldn't spot him. Perhaps he was in one of the back rooms.

John considered sending another text, but figured it wouldn't do any good as Sherlock was probably deep into the case by then. Hearing music begin around him, the doctor smiled ever so slightly to himself, the heavy bass reverberating in his every nerve. It reminded him of his years in Uni when he'd go out clubbing, the past time usually a hot and heavy one. Pleasant memories, really, beautiful women dancing close with him every night. He'd never been in a club like this one, though. Usually, he and his mates would frequent seedy underground clubs, none of which compared to this level of luxury. Everything around him somehow screamed 'erotic', from the plush leather seats to the marble-topped, softly lit bar. However, the true awe in the club was the stage, which John began to inspect as the music tempo increased. A lit balcony was sitting towards the back, two intricate, almost Victorian style staircases curling from either side to perfectly center a pole, the likes of which John hadn't seen previously.

Instead of simple, shiny steel, the tall pole was lit up in a neon blue, obviously making it the focus of the entire club. Rightly so, he thought, realizing then the stage was directly in the middle of the club for all to see. A good way to draw in patrons and make money, he supposed. Suddenly pulled from his about the décor by an obvious change in song, signaling the first dance of the night, John turned his attention to the stage, figuring he could enjoy himself a bit until Sherlock dragged him off to tackle some white-collar embezzler.

The song had just begun to pick up pace when a cloud of fog suddenly appeared on the stage, giving the dancer time to approach from under the balcony unseen. Anticipation thrumming through his veins at the frankly amazing show thus far, John focused in on the still-dark figure before him on stage, body silhouetted by the fog as they grabbed for the pole, stepping into the light a moment later with a dramatic roll of their pelvis.

John was, to say the least, shocked. Instead of a woman being on stage, as he'd fully expected, his gaze was instead filled by a young, muscled man clad in only a pair of jean shorts, his brown hair messily gelled on the top of his head. Oh. _Oh_. This was a gay bar, then. Looking away uncomfortably, John took a glance around him, just then realizing the massive amounts of men present were due to, well, the massive amounts of men. There wasn't a girl in sight, save for the blonde one who appeared to be managing private rooms in the back. Face burning in embarrassment, as he had been so absorbed in looking around for Sherlock and admiring the décor to notice the obvious flamboyancy around him, John clenched his fists by his sides. Of course Sherlock wouldn't think to mention that little fact, and of course he picked out his outfit knowing how to make John fit in perfectly. He'd probably even calculated the fact he was going to use extra hair product.

Frustration welling in him as he pointedly _didn't_ watch the fit lad dancing seductively before him, John instead occupied himself by looking around for Sherlock, the effort failing once again. Where ever he ended up being, John would be sure to give him a piece of his mind at the end of the night. A little warning would have been nice, as being in the atmosphere was bringing round some feelings he ignored most of the time. Yeah, this was definitely not going to turn out well. Although he was relieved when the dance seemed to be winding down, John felt badly for taking up the front seat without responding to anything, and in this took out his wallet to throw a fiver onto the stage. One smile and flirty wink later from the young dancer, John finally remembered to breathe, realizing ashamedly he was already feeling the burn of arousal coil low in his belly. Lovely.

Taking out his phone as the stage was quickly cleared of all notes, John sent off another text to Sherlock, fingers tapping unnecessarily hard at the little plastic keys.

_ You could've let me know me this was a gay strip club. A bit of a shock, that one. Have you found the guy yet?_

Before the message could finish sending, a new song came on, this one John recognized, having heard it once or twice when he was out with past girlfriends. It began with an upbeat techno sound, the entire stage darkening save for the bright neon pole, the effect instantly drawing his attention. Eyes roving to the stage, John realized that now, instead of embarrassment, he was feeling a sort of guilty pleasure; even almost admitting to himself he was slightly anticipating the rest of the dance. Much to his awe, when the short techy intro was over, the bass dropped heavily with a spark of fireworks on either side of the darkened stage, revealing a scantily clad, shadowed form standing up on the balcony, his presence dominating the entire club. As the lyrics of the song, (Applause, his brain supplied unhelpfully and embarrassingly), began, the dancer expertly descended the still pitch black stairs slowly to the beat, strutting across the stage in a pair of impossibly high stiletto heels. It was already an incredible performance timed perfectly to the music, and right when John thought it couldn't get more impressive, the dancer reached the pole, his face still shadowed. Grabbing it with two hands at the second bass drop of the song, the man swung around the pole with surprising grace and swiftness, lights suddenly illuminating the stage just as the lyric, "I'll turn the lights on" thrummed through the speakers.

For half a second, John was enthralled by the effects, and didn't notice _who_ exactly the dancer was, as he'd previously been completely shadowed from recognition by the lack of any sort of luminescence. However, as the doctor looked back up, his awe was suddenly replaced by a feeling of shock, his mouth going dry in an instant as it hung open in utter surprise. There, in front of both him and everyone in the club, was Sherlock Holmes, nearly bared for the world to see.

He was clad in only two articles of clothing, if they could even be called clothing. The first, much to John's utter disbelief, were a pair of sleek black stiletto heels that looked impossible to wear. And yet, there Sherlock was, up on the stage swinging around the pole as if he was born doing it. The second piece of his outfit consisted only of a pair of panties. Black lace bordered the low cut covering on his slightly jutting hip bones, leading almost seamlessly into an almost too-revealing swath of red silk, which covered his front and arse just enough to keep little to the imagination.

John found himself then unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him; partly out of shock, but mostly out of arousal he didn't recognize yet. Instead of focusing on himself, his full attention was trained on Sherlock, from the smooth grinding movements of his hips during the upbeat verses, to the throwing back of his silken curls as he hung upside-down on the pole during the chorus. About halfway through the song, however, Sherlock left the pole and began moving towards the side of the stage, where a set of stairs led down to the main floor. The floor where he was sitting. Suddenly pulled from his enthrallment of watching his flatmate's slim, graceful, lightly muscled body writhe erotically around stage, John realized in horror he had an erection the intensity of which he hadn't felt in years. He was ashamed to admit it, but somehow couldn't bear to force his gaze away from Sherlock, even when their eyes met at the exact moment Sherlock stepped off the stage with an exaggerated roll of his pelvis.

And then, in an instant, oh _god _Sherlock was approaching him. Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights as he made a valiant effort to keep his eyes upon his flatmate's face, John could only sit in shock as Sherlock danced his way closer, eventually ending up unashamedly before him, giving him the lap dance of a lifetime. Sure his eyes were the size of dinner plates at that time, John could only sit, stunned, as Sherlock's knees came to rest on the outside of his thighs, effectively straddling him. Letting out a choked gasp as the detective wrapped his arms around his neck to let his head drop back, his whole body rolling sinuously with the bass of the music, John clenched his fists at his sides to keep from touching, sure there was some sort of explanation for why his friend was giving him a lap dance in the middle of a gay strip club.

There was a reason, one of which he figured out a few seconds later.

As Sherlock came out of his leaned back position, he ground his hips just above John's, feeling and ignoring the obvious erection to instead lean into John's ear, speaking as he continued to dance undercover. "I haven't found the embezzler yet," he informed, voice deep and breathy from the upbeat dance he was currently engaged in. "He's tall, black hair; two piercings on either side of his bottom lip, tattoo on his neck of a rose."

John didn't know how to respond. First of all, his brain definitely wasn't getting enough blood to fully function, and second, he currently had a lapful of a nearly starkers Sherlock. As a result, he could only nod as Sherlock stood, having to return to the stage before the song was over. Watching as the detective took one more swing around the pole, hanging off of it right as the song ended, John again remembered to breathe. A second later, he realized his blunt nails were digging into his palms to match the erection that was digging into his zipper, and unclenched his fists to quickly and discreetly adjust himself as Sherlock shamelessly bent over to collect the copious amount of notes he'd received.

John was about to get up and flee, realizing Sherlock must've felt his erection, when the detective gave him a beckoning look, one of concentration he only got when a case was about to close. Sighing shakily, John rose from his chair, getting quite a few lingering gazes and winks from men around him as he followed his friend into one of the private rooms.

"He's just fled the club," Sherlock said, apparently already on the phone with Lestrade when John had trailed into the luxuriously furnished room after him. "Yes, yes, the son. Make it quick, I don't want this one getting away." With the demand, Sherlock took his mobile away from his ear, hitting the end button quickly before turning to face John, still in nothing but the heels and pants. "The case is closed."

If John thought Sherlock had little shame before, he then realized he, in fact, had _no_ shame. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of, he thought, pushing the passing idea away to instead cross his arms in front of him, thankful his shirt covered most of the bulge in his trousers. "I was worried," he replied sarcastically. "By the way, that was some surprise you gave me," he snapped, not able to think of anything else to say.

The edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched, hinting at a smug expression. "I'm sure. In my defense, I thought you'd figure it out beforehand."

John frowned, a blush creeping up the back of his neck because, no, he hadn't figured it out. "Of course you did. Of course my first conclusion would be Sherlock bloody Holmes stripping in- that!" He responded, trying to focus on his anger as his eyes began to betray him and rove along Sherlock's nearly nude form. "Thanks for the clothes, by the way. I really fit the part now, don't I?"

Sherlock regarded John stoically for a moment, eyes raking along his flatmate's body slowly, letting his expression gradually show just how satisfied he was with his clothing choice. "You're welcome," he replied, allowing his voice to come out deep and smoky, dark and low like storm clouds on the horizon, full of promise and danger. "It was simple, really," he continued, stepping forward expertly in the heels, his stature then more intimidating with the added centimeters he held over John, "figuring out your size, figuring out which shirt would compliment your chest and shoulders."

John felt his back hit the wall as he stepped back to match Sherlock's advancement, trying even then to deny his obvious arousal at the other man's low voice unnecessarily explained how he picked out the outfit. "Oh?" He managed out, voice nervous and clipped in arousal.

Sherlock nodded, finally satisfied in letting himself feel and acknowledge how he felt about John. "Yes," he answered simply, crowding the doctor against the wall, slowly pressing centimeter after centimeter of his body flush against the other man's. "Although, I must admit," he murmured, leaning in close to let his lips brush the shell of John's ear just as his hips finally rested comfortably against the other man's, "finding jeans that wouldn't completely pain you while aroused was difficult. Tell me," he continued, pinning John's wrists to the wall above them in one swift movement, grinding their hips together softly, "how did I do?"

John gasped as Sherlock got closer, every centimeter he pressed against him shocking him further, the detective's words barely registering. That is, until he was jolted back to reality by Sherlock's erection grinding against his, his breath hitching in a tiny, reluctant moan. "Could be better," he ground out, eyes squeezed shut in disbelief as Sherlock's musky scent surrounded him, the combination of expensive cologne, clean sweat, and just a hint of smoke intoxicating.

Sherlock breathed out shakily against John's neck, unable to stop himself from pressing his face into the nape, breathing deeply. "I could help," he growled, letting his tongue flick out to taste the salty-sweet smoothness of the doctor's skin.

John sucked in a sharp breath, his brain screaming both yes and no at the same time. At first, he was prepared to refuse, to look at things from a logical perspective, to work things out before they dove headfirst into what they and everyone else knew was coming. However, before he could get out an answer, Lestrade's voice sounded in the hallway over the muted sound of music from the main room.

Sherlock pulled back in an instant, crossing the room to throw on his coat he'd produced from beside a nearby couch, covering himself just in time for Lestrade to enter the room.

"We've got him," the DI announced with a smile, all white teeth and charm as he looked from John to Sherlock. However, when he finally got a good look at the consulting detective, his satisfied expression turned to one of shock and confusion, eyes falling upon Sherlock's stilettos and bare legs. "Uh, alright, I don't even want to know," he finally said, giving John a look that normally would've been returned, had the doctor not been in such shock, still pressed to the wall, breath quick and short as he tried to school his expression.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his coat more surely around himself. "So, you've managed to do something useful and catch the man. I'm assuming that means we're free to go, yes?"

Lestrade sighed exasperatedly but nodded, hating the thought of how much paper work he was going to have to do because of the chase they'd just engaged in. "Yeah, go on. We'll get your statements tomorrow morning," he replied, giving the pair another peculiar look at their strange dress.

Sherlock nodded his short thanks and swept out of the room, John following a moment later. Apparently, Sherlock had only worn the heels, panties, and coat to travel to the club, and as a result sat in the cab on the way back nearly naked next to a very aroused John. Yeah, not a good combination, John thought as his eyes roved along his flatmate's body, flashes of the past hour running through his mind.

They finally made it back to Baker Street around half nine, John looking forward to a nice cuppa so he could talk over what had happened with Sherlock, so they could discuss where they wished to go. His arousal had slowly lessened during the long cab ride, causing his urgent need to dissipate enough for logical thought to make its way through.

"Alright, I say we sh-" John began awkwardly, barely in the door of the flat before Sherlock was pinning him against the nearest wall, lips crashing into his. Yeah, so much for getting rid of his urgent need. At the feeling of Sherlock's lips finally against his, the feeling he hadn't realized he craved until that night, John clutched at the lapels of Sherlock's coat and kissed back, letting his tongue sweep out to trace the other's bottom lip.

Sherlock, in response, let his tongue tangle with John's, rolling his hips almost sinfully as he did so. "You taste just like I always imagined," he groaned when they parted for breath, foreheads pressed together.

"Christ," John cursed under his panting breath, fingers going automatically to undo Sherlock's coat buttons. "You've got no idea how you looked out there tonight. Where'd you even learn to do that?"

Sherlock chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down John's spine. "It only took an hour of practice. The process is quite simple, actually," he explained, peppering sloppy kisses and gentle bites down John's jaw line, "it's just a matter of muscle contraction and relaxation at specific times," he muttered, shoving the already half-open shirt off of John's shoulder to suck a hickey onto the junction of his shoulder and neck. "I should teach you."

John nodded without thinking about it, vision almost hazy with the overload of sensations he was getting from the consistent roll of Sherlock's hips to the unrelenting heat of his mouth against his neck. "Jesus, yes," he replied, suddenly realizing he had free reign to touch Sherlock, while earlier he hadn't. Remembering his frustration from earlier, the doctor made a split second decision, taking what was before him. Letting out a possessive sound deep in his throat, John tugged Sherlock's coat off, grabbing his bare biceps a moment later to shove him against the wall instead. "Tell me the truth," he murmured, kneeling to nose at the musky junction between Sherlock's tented crotch and thigh, "couldn't you have caught the guy being a bouncer or something?"

Sherlock looked down at John, eyes hooded and breathing labored as he nodded. "I could have," he replied, moaning softly when the doctor began mouthing at his silk-clad erection, sucking at the precome damp patch at the head, "but I wished to see how you-" he paused, cut off by his own desperate groan, "-how you reacted."

John rested his head against Sherlock's hip bone, breathing heavily for a moment, warm puffs of air heating the cool damp fabric covering the detective's cock. "God, I can't believe you sometimes," he breathed, running his hands gently along the smooth backs of Sherlock's thighs, cupping his arse a moment later.

Sherlock rolled his hips forward, biting his lower lip at the overwhelming sensation that flooded through his body. "Please, John," he choked out, unable to find other words for what he wanted, what he needed.

John moaned softly at the detective's desperation, tugging the panties down to his ankles in one swift motion, Sherlock's cock slapping softly against his stomach, precome glistening just below his navel as a result. Although he'd never done this before with another bloke, John knew how things worked, and at the moment wished to experience them first hand. So, in one movement, hands stroking along the smooth sleekness of the heels Sherlock wore, he licked a long stripe up the length of the detective's cock.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, eyes flying open wide in awe at the sensation, looking to John in shock. "Do that again," he said, his tone pleading rather than commanding. He needed more information.

John obliged the second Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes locked with the detective's as slid his cock between his lips, the weight warm and salty on his tongue. Moaning around the length, John swirled his tongue experimentally around the smooth head, prodding at the leaking slit a moment later, determined to draw more delicious noises from Sherlock. He was successful a moment later when he began sucking, Sherlock's cock slipping into the warm, wet suction of his mouth again and again.

"John," Sherlock gasped, looking down just in time to watch the doctor take his own cock out to toss off for relief, "please, I need-"

John pulled off of Sherlock's erection for half a second, bringing the hand that wasn't stroking his own erection up to fist Sherlock's as he responded. "It's alright, just let yourself go. It's alright," he murmured, kissing the tip of his flatmate's prick in encouragement. "I want to see you come."

Sherlock, at John's words, lost it, jerking his hips forward into John's fist twice before he was coming with a shout, some landing on the doctor's chin, some dripping down his knuckles. When his vision and focus returned to normal from the white he'd seen for a few seconds, Sherlock looked down at John, who was kneeling before him fully clothed save for his exposed cock, which he was stripping desperately. "John," Sherlock said softly, knowing from previous observation how vastly his voice effected the doctor, "come for me."

John ended up coming the second after Sherlock's command, a soft, desperate moan slipping from his lips as he felt orgasm punch from him, painting the shiny stilettos he was kneeling before with strings of semen. "Fuck," he gasped, sitting back to catch his breath as he looked up at Sherlock in awe. "Fuck," he repeated, a large grin spreading over his face at the sight of Sherlock's kiss-swollen lips.

Sherlock took a deep breath, willing himself to move so he could straddle John. "Next time," he murmured, pressing his lips lazily against John's neck.

If John Watson was asked when exactly the night of June 21st took a turn for the unexpected, he wouldn't be able to answer. He would, however, be able to pinpoint when he developed his panty kink, when his love for stilettos and neon blue stripper poles developed; he would be able to tell when exactly his life with Sherlock changed for the better.

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><p><em><strong>((The songs used in this fic are listed below:<strong>_

_**Sofi Needs A Ladder - Dead Mau 5- Playing when the first dancer was stripping**_

_**Applause - Lady Gaga- Playing when Sherlock was stripping))**_


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